


He’s done this before.

by Luna_sharp618



Series: Hazbin Hotel Ficlets [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastors version of hunting for sport, Blood, Death, Gen, Gore, New Orleans, come on guys he’s a serial killer, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 11:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18030773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_sharp618/pseuds/Luna_sharp618
Summary: They are running.Well no- she’s running. He is hunting.





	He’s done this before.

**Author's Note:**

> A little idea that popped into my head with inspiration from RiplaeChills art on twitter of human alastor being a happy hunter and so this was born.

They are running. 

Well no- she’s running. He is hunting. 

His breathing is controlled and soothing as the sweet sing of adrenaline spurs him on like a crack of a whip against a stallion’s weather beaten hide. His rifle is heavy and grounding where it is snuggled up to his back, suspended there by a worn out strap of leather, coddling his weapon to him like a child clinging to its mother. A new belt of leather would do wonders for his aching shoulder- he needs something sturdy and fresh to carry the solid weight of his prized firearm. Soon. It will come to him soon. 

His steps are furtive and calculating as he trails after the lumbered scrambling of his panicked prey. Spit polished boots snap against dry twigs and parched roots, allowing his presence to echo across the barren expanse of fog and bayou, acting as a pressing reminder to his little play thing that he is merely a few leagues away. 

The pale moonlight is a ghostly spectre over this intense sport. Illuminating the sensational game of cat and mouse like a enthralled spectator. The trees stand frozen as he passes, ashen and cold in their fear as a king of the night stalks expertly for his prize. 

She is still running. Her long brown hair fast flowing like rushing water over her eyes, blinding her of where to place her bare, blistered and bloodied feet. Muddied hands claw outward in panic for any surface to grasp. A tree perhaps. Or god may deliver her sanctuary with the blessing of a ranger. 

Her throat is raw from the persistent flood of bitingly cold air to her abused lungs as she runs and runs and runs and runs- runs like a child that races to seek the comfort of their parents when they wake up in a cold sweat, the visions of demons and jagged teeth still lingering behind their closed eyelids. 

But her demon is still lingering in the fog, mere metres behind. 

He had been so charming. A vision of a man. A true gentleman with his short crop hair, freshly pressed suit and gleaming smile. His eyes told a tale of sharp intelligence and his voice spun stories of caddish back and forth wrapped up in golden whimsy. He was stunning and polite and most definitely a man a single lady would be proud to take home to mother and father. A man only heard of in fairy tales, idolised and adored by little girls that wanted to be charmed by a daring prince of his stature. 

Now here she stumbles, heart drilling a permanent dent into her rib cage, muscles screaming with exertion and tears branding ugly marks upon her reddened cheeks as she runs for her life. 

He is whistling softly to himself like a beautiful songbird. Somewhere out there. Stalking the fog with practised ease. 

He’s certainly done this before. 

She refuses to stop- not even for a moment. She just has to wait for sunlight to crest over the tops of the charcoal trees. She just has to wait for the nightmare to be over. Hopefully he’ll grow tired and give up. Hopefully. 

Intelligent eyes begin to sharpen as his smile twists into a sinister grin of petulance. 

He is no longer enjoying this. It’s becoming boring and predictable. The cold is beginning to grasp at his bare knuckles like the touch of a tender lover, making him yearn for his crackling hearth and sensational show tunes. 

Abhorrently, he pushes a forced sigh from between his stretched lips, sets his shoulders back- taking pleasure in the sickening pop of his vertebrae as he reverses the hunched over stance of a pensive predator, and allows himself to be swallowed into the misty air. 

His target is right in front him. She’s been snagged against the creeping fingers of a sullen bush, it’s twigs grasping firmly onto the already torn threads of her evening gown. She had looked so pretty in the subtle gleam of the fire as she sat upon the settee, completely ignorant of lounging in the mouth of a lion’s den. 

Poor little lamb. 

He takes a knee, slowly and silently. He is invisible now. His presence everywhere and nowhere- much like the eerie scream of starving coyotes that resort to cannibalism in the deep dark of the marshes. 

Half his mind is centred upon the lady’s panicked struggling as she tries so hard to free herself of the cruel grip of the bayou’s barbed wire. Her grunts of pain are pitiful. Her hushed sobs of stray tears are damn near arousing as they play across the deafening quiet of the night. The other half of his mind is focused upon pulling his firearm from its idle slumber upon his back, fingers sweeping over the chilled metal and polished furnishings. 

She’s growing tired now. He can hear it in the laboured breath that escapes her and the impatient stamping of bloodied feet. She ought to be careful- that sort of display could attract some unwanted attention. 

He can’t help but chuckle a deep whisper at his own pleasurable whimsy. 

Expertly, he puts the butt of the gun to his shoulder, eyes sharp and breathing even. 

He’s done this before. 

Casually, he aims the sight toward his struggling soon-to-be victim, savouring the last small drips of adrenaline as the chase comes to a satisfying close. His mind selfishly gorging itself on it all- almost impatient to reach the end of their fantastic little game. 

Pearly teeth dig masochistically into the flesh of his bottom lip. Breathing even. Shoulders relaxed. Aim. Fire. 

The bullet soars through the air. Ripping through layers of tense muscle and flowing veins. She collapses with a mournful scream, sending the murky night into a flurry of echoes and disturbed shadows. 

Now comes the fun part.

He stands in an instant to address his shrieking prize. The girl’s hands scramble over the weeping wound in her thigh, desperately trying to stop the incessant waterfall of blood that cascades down her milky skin. No longer can she run. The game is over. He closes in at a leisurely pace, as if he has all the time in the world, reaping in the savoury taste of victory that plays across his tongue. 

“Please” her eyes are puffy with tear soaked rims as she pleads to him. Her hands push forward into the stifling air as a feeble barrier of protection. Death is upon her and she knows it. Knows that there is nothing she can do to stop this monster from engulfing her- bones and all. 

Prolonging it is just playing to his sadistic tastes. 

“Shhhh” he croons with his voice of velvet. Keen eyes sparkle in the intense moonlight from where he observes the pitiful scene at his feet. 

It is getting rather boring now though. 

Abruptly he crouches upon his haunches like a puppet with broken strings. Sickeningly warm breath ghosts across her reddened cheeks and goose pimpled flesh. She’s dying. Slowly. The colour is draining from her as the flame in her eyes begins to dim with the last flickers of life. 

This is his favourite part. 

Yes he may adore the watching, the waiting, the baiting and the chasing, but these few moments are so brazenly intimate, so personal, he feels almost angry that she has allowed herself to bare her leaking soul to him in the pallid moonlight. 

“Hush now” he comforts, the words barely above a whisper as he leans in close. The tips of his fingers are almost blue now in the biting cold as he reaches forward to grasp at her tender throat, basking in the fleeting struggle she gives as his frigid fingers coil around her windpipe. Languidly his thumbs dig into the hollow jugular groove and squeezes. Her pulse is thick and sluggish in its drowsy beat against his knuckles. “You were excellent- truly” 

Innocently she gasps in a choked breath, pupils blown wide and growing dimmer with every millimetre of life that drips from her gaping wound. Feebly, her bloodied hands try to push away his persistent grip- it’s almost comical in a way. A twisted sort of way. 

“Look at me” he demands with a domineering tone. Gone is the smooth velvet croon of his record player voice. Now he is impatient and tired and in demand of his much needed fix, like some of jittery maniac. “look” 

Her terrified eyes snap up to him. The girl’s grey, colourless face gasping for life in his crushing grip much like a fish tangled in a net and drowning in oxygen. 

Gradually the light flickers out and the soul leaves her with one bitten off cough. He watches it all with rapt attention, drinking it in as if he is inhaling the sweetest tobacco from a freshly lit pipe. His body shivers with the overwhelming pleasure of feeling the life of the hardest game creatures to hunt seep out of them under the press of his finger tips. 

It’s a thrill like no other. 

Slowly he removes his constrictive grip from around her crushed windpipe. In the distance he can hear the shallow chirping of little scavengers that want to reap in the rewards of his kill. A smirk plays across his lips at the idea of leaving her here for the swamp to swallow whole- bones and all. 

“No!” He prizes her lax jaw open with his bloodied hands, operating it like a children’s toy, imitating a whispery cry of the dead woman “Take me back home!”

“Well if you insist, my dear” the psychopath chuckles deeply while reaching for the knife stored in the side of his boot, a tune already beginning to stir in the record player of his mind. “Don’t look so scared” he chuckles down at her expressionless face, pressing the sharp curve of the stainless steel to the girl’s cooling flesh. 

“I’ve done this before”

**Author's Note:**

> It had occurred to me a few days ago that alastor is most probably tithe type of killer to choose more personal and intimate ways to kill- a rifle is practice at bring his prey to their knees but choking them or even stabbing them seemed to me like something he’d prefer to do, allowing him to watch the soul leave and get the real rush of killing another human being. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos' are much appreciated and Follow me on Twitter (LBamboona) if you like to see some art and possible updates on hazbin Ficlets like this 💜💜


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